


Laundry Day

by ArgentSleeper



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Laundry, M/M, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 22:19:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9348848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgentSleeper/pseuds/ArgentSleeper
Summary: If the laundry machines had been on the roof, then Merlin wouldn't have had any problems.  But they were in the basement, and in the basement were all of the things Merlin wasn't ready to face.





	

**Author's Note:**

> See end for warnings

If Merlin had been any kind of normal person, he would have been ashamed right now.  But as he hadn’t had the luxury of being a normal person since the day he was born, shame had had to take a back seat, as it had so many times before.

“Look, I’ll give you ten pounds if you can just do this one little thing for me.”

It was Gwaine’s fault really.  If he hadn’t decided he had to fly off to bloody _Peru_ for a month, and if he hadn’t been so busy preparing that he forgot to do the one chore around the flat that Merlin actually asked of him, then Merlin wouldn’t be in this circumstance.  Or at least perhaps not so soon.

“I’m not washing your dirty pants, you pervert.”  Mordred scowled and slammed the door in his face.  Perhaps Mordred hadn’t been the best person to ask.  But the only really _nice_ person in the building was Alice, and there was no way he was asking Alice.  She might say yes, but she’d want to know _why_ and no ten pound bribe would dissuade her from getting answers.

Instead Merlin returned to his flat and flopped down on the sofa in defeat, wrinkling his nose from the odour wafting from his pile of laundry.  He didn’t blame his boss for telling him to learn how to use a washing machine or find a new job.  The make-shift scrubbings he’d given the uniforms in the shower didn’t quite have the same effect.   There was the option of just buying a new uniform, but he wasn’t quite desperate enough to dip that far into his emergency fund just yet.

He thought of the disgusted look on Mordred’s face.  Maybe he was that desperate.

Merlin laid on his couch staring despondently at the ceiling until there was a pounding at his door.  It was probably Will, come to find out why he’d had a meeting with the boss after his shift, or Alice come to deliver more of her chocolate biscuits because obviously Merlin didn’t know how to feed himself right.  He hoped it was the biscuits rather than Will right now.

It was neither.  Merlin wearily opened the door and donned a scowl of his own upon seeing his visitor.  “I paid the rent, and if you’re here to try to tell me I didn’t, don’t bother.  I kept the receipt so I can use it against you in court and then I’ll get a few thousand pounds from you for wrongful eviction.  Actually, please tell me that’s why you’re here.  I could use the money.”

Mr Pendragon, the landprat, raised an unimpressed eyebrow, gaze sweeping the flat.  “Clearly.  Unfortunately for your decor, that’s not why I’m here.”

“Then what do you want?”

Mr Pendragon had owned Merlin’s building since he and Gwaine had moved in three months ago.  Apparently his father had owned it before him, managing it from his own fancy penthouse somewhere in London.  The junior Pendragon had chosen a different management style, taking up residence on the ground floor, always available to his tenants when needed.  Or when completely unwanted, as it seemed to be for Merlin.  Since the moment Mr Pendragon had introduced himself he had made it a point to drop by Merlin’s flat at least once a week.  His excuses were always horrendously flimsy, from “reminders” that the rent was due to “invitations” to building social events.  He also insisted that Merlin call him _Arthur_.  Which Merlin steadfastly refused, earning a pout.

Gwaine, being the childish reprobate that he was, thought it was hilarious and always found excuses to make Merlin be the one to answer the door.

“Ms Knight rang me to complain that you were harassing her son.”

Merlin’s jaw dropped.  Oh _of fucking course_ Morgause would call the management!  “I wasn’t _harassing_ Mordred!  I was asking him to do me a favour!  One I offered to _pay_ him for, by the way.  And when he said no I left.  No ‘harassing’ involved.”

“She says you tried to give him your pants.”

“I wanted him to do my laundry for me,” Merlin explained through grit teeth.  He was so going to get them back for this.  Mordred might just find his key misplaced next time he came home from school in a thunderstorm.  Merlin should have felt petty planning revenge on a twelve year old, but he found himself unable to right now.

Mr Pendragon snorted.  Someone really ought to tell him it was an unattractive sound on him. “You needed a kid to do your laundry?  What, Mummy live too far away?”

Well yes, actually. “I don’t need my mother to wash my clothes for me, thanks.”

“You are aware we have a fully functional washing machine in the basement.  Four of them, in fact.  Completely free for use by tenants.”

“Yes, I’m aware.  If you’ll excuse me, now that you’re reassured I’m not a paedophile-”

Merlin made to close the door, but Mr Pendragon stuck his foot in, shouldering his way into the flat instead. “I’m assured of that, but now I’m doubting your ability to do your own laundry.”  His nose wrinkled as he caught a whiff of the room.  “And now that doubt is confirmed.”

“I work at a zoo.  I’m sorry that the lion enclosure doesn’t leave my uniform smelling like daisies.”

Mr Pendragon actually looked intrigued for a second, but it soon passed to be replaced by a smug stubbornness.  “That settles it.  Come along, Merlin.”

Before Merlin could stop him, Mr Pendragon had picked up the laundry basket and was sweeping out the door with it.  “Wh- but- _stop!_   You can’t just steal my clothes!”

“I’m not stealing them.”  Mr Pendragon shook off his efforts to retrieve the basket easily, taking advantage of the stairs and Merlin’s lack of desire to tumble down them headfirst.  “I’m making sure the next complaint I receive isn’t to deal with the unpleasant stench of Ms Knight’s neighbour.”

Merlin’s heartrate picked up, and he blamed it conveniently on the climb.  “Well fine.  You can just do it then.  Bring it back up to me when you’re finished.”

“Oh no you don’t.”  Mr Pendragon hoisted the basket onto his hip and gripped Merlin’s arm firmly, dragging him down the next flight of stairs.  “It’s my duty as your landlord to ensure that your living experience here is the best it can possibly be.  That means having the ability to wash your own damn clothes, a skill any child could pick up, _Mer_ lin.”

_It’ll be fine.  There are windows and it’s daylight and the door is open.  It’s fine.  You can do this._

Merlin followed Mr Pendragon into the basement laundry.  None of the machines were in use.  Merlin wasn’t sure if that was normal for a Tuesday afternoon or if all the other clothes had fled when they sensed Mr Pendragon coming.  Merlin certainly couldn’t blame them if they had.  His own instincts to flee were kicking into high gear right now.  But Mr Pendragon was standing firmly in the way to freedom, so he had no choice but to stay where he was.

“Now, the first step is to put the clothes into the machine.”

“I _know_ how to use a washing machine,” Merlin muttered furiously under his breath, jamming his trousers and pants and shirts into the drum with shaking hands.  Then he dumped a splash of detergent in, not bothering to try to be precise.  When he finished he balled his hands into fists to hide the tremors.

“Very good.” If it wouldn’t automatically get him evicted Merlin would have punched the condescending prick in the face.  “I also like to add a bit of my own special blend of stain remover.  From the smell, yours could definitely use it.”

“You can keep it,” Merlin interrupted quickly.  “I’m not waiting for you to go get your special posh detergent when I didn’t need you to do this in the first place.”

The posh prat waved him aside.  “Nonsense.  I keep it down here for general use, up on that shelf there.  Which you would know if you’d ever been down here before.  Honestly, what have you been doing these past few months?  Buying new every week?  And where did my stool go?”

“Gwaine does the washing.  I do the cooking and handling the prat landlord.”

Mr Pendragon grinned broadly, as if Merlin had offered him glowing praise.  “Sounds like an excellent arrangement.  I approve.  Ah, there it is.”  He reached for the stool, which was propped up against the door.

Merlin sprang forward.  “No wait, don’t!”

It was too late.  The door slammed shut, taking all of the air out of the room with it.

Merlin grabbed the knob, but no matter how he turned it, the door refused to budge.  “You- you locked us in here.  Where’s the key?  You have to have the key, right?”

“No?” Mr Pendragon shrugged, which just proved he had to be mental, because this was not a shrugging situation.  “Relax, Merlin.  I’ll call my sister and she’ll grab the keyring from my flat.  She’ll probably take the mickey out of me for leaving them in there, but she’ll do it because she doesn’t want to have to attend Friday dinners with Father all on her own if I were to die down here.”

Merlin’s grip tightened painfully on the knob, and he could feel his breaths coming more and more shallowly.  “How long until she gets here?”

“First I have to text her… Merlin, are you alright?”

“I’m fine!” he snapped, which was the most pointless lie on the planet.  All the blood had drained from his face, and he was barely getting enough oxygen to keep himself upright.  Mr Pendragon was apparently not as big of a dollophead as he seemed, and picked up on these signs despite Merlin’s very convincing protest.

“Sit down, rest your back against the wall here.”  A gentle hand guided Merlin towards the floor, and he followed it gratefully, trying to block out everything but the soothing voice in his ear.  It wasn’t really working.  “Look, there’s the window there; you can see outside.  I’ll open it for you so you can feel the fresh air.”

Mr Pendragon made to move, but Merlin grasped his sleeve and clung tight.  A whimpered plea caught in his throat, but thankfully no words were needed.  Arthur settled back down by his side.

“Outside I can see Mordred’s bicycle, leaning up against the building.  I’ve told him a hundred times to get a padlock for it, but he never listens.  I’m blaming witchcraft for it never getting stolen, or maybe all the thieves are just afraid of his mum.  I can hear the washing machine humming, and if you reach over you can feel the agitator vibrating the machine.  Don’t you just love the smell of fresh clean clothes, Merlin?  I just washed this shirt yesterday, can you still tell?  It’s apparently supposed to be honey and lavender, which Morgana assures me is a very manly scent, but I have a feeling she’s making fun of me.  Can I tell you a secret, Merlin?  I like it anyway.”

Every time Merlin started to think he’d calmed down, he’d remember why the panic attack had triggered in the first place and his breathing would pick up again.  Instead he tried not to think at all, focusing on Arthur’s stream of words.

“Why didn’t you just tell me you were claustrophobic?  I would have understood.  I have a fear of spiders.  It’s perfectly normal.”

“Not.”

“Of course it is.  Have you _seen_ spiders?  No animal should have that many legs.  And _eyes_.  There’s a reason this building is so pest free.  I made sure it was perfectly sealed to block out spiders of all sizes.  I hear in Australia they can be the size of dinner plates.  I’ve made a solemn vow never to go to Australia.”

A giggle caught in Merlin’s throat.  He was afraid to let it out lest he never stop and Arthur think he’d gone mad.  “ ’m not claustrophobic,” he murmured.

“Then what?  Fear of washing machines?  That would explain why you tried to pay a kid to do your laundry.”

“Basements.”  His heart jumped a little, and his grip tightened instinctively on Arthur’s shirt, as if the word itself might attack him.  He’d never told anyone before, not even his mum.  Gwaine had never asked, too grateful to get out of doing the cooking to question him.

“What’s wrong with basements?” Arthur asked, drawing him a bit closer and rubbing a hand in circles on his back.  Merlin shuddered at the touch, and Arthur pulled away.  “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“I…” _Don’t tell don’t tell it’s our little secret Merlin don’t tell._   The words seemed to claw their way out despite himself, breaking free of their prison.  “There was a basement in our old house, when I was little.  I used to play down there, to- to keep out of my mum’s way and because it was quieter for when she needed to sleep before a late shift.”

Without his input his hands had started shaking uncontrollably again. Arthur took them in his, lacing their fingers together and squeezing lightly.  Merlin took a few long, deep breaths.

“When I was five, my mum started dating this new guy.  I- I liked him.  He didn’t ignore me like most of them did.  He would come play with me in the basement when Mum was cooking dinner upstairs, or watch me during her naps.”

“Merlin, you don’t have to-“

He’d guessed what came next.  Merlin wished he’d been so quick back then.  Maybe this all could have been prevented.  “One day he asked me to play a new game with him.  A secret game, just for me and him.  And then he… he took out his cock.  He made me touch him.  Touch it.”

The memories flashed back through his mind once more, and he clung to Arthur, to the sound of the washing machine, to anything that could anchor him in the here and now.  He could still feel the soft, warm skin of Kanen’s prick in his hands, hear the scum’s teasing voice about their _game_.  Could still feel the hot shame of allowing it to go further, not knowing enough to stop it.  Not even knowing it should be stopped.

“Mum dumped him a few months later for something else.  I never- I couldn’t tell her.”  Not even after he was old enough to realize what had happened to him.

Arthur was quiet next to him.  He must be disgusted by it all.  By Merlin.  There were all those stories in the news about how a little kid was being touched by their creepy uncle but the creepy uncle was caught because the kid complained to mummy.  Because kids didn’t know about victim blaming and embarrassment and gaslighting so they just whined because they didn’t like it.  But Merlin, Merlin had been _proud_.  He’d felt _honoured_ to be given such intimate attention by his mummy’s new friend.  Because “Merlin, we only show those parts to _family._ ”  If Merlin was Arthur, he would have run away screaming by now.

But he hadn’t pulled away.  He hadn’t let go of Merlin’s hands.

“I know this probably won’t mean much, but it wasn’t your fault,” Arthur finally said softly.  “He took advantage of you, and it wasn’t your fault, and you didn’t deserve it.”

Merlin wasn’t so sure about that, but Arthur’s words were a balm on his soul nonetheless.  Merlin sagged against him, exhausted.  Arthur let him, loosing one of Merlin’s hands to card it through his hair instead.  They sat like that for a while, and Merlin almost thought he might fall asleep to the hum of the washer and Arthur’s gentle touch.  When he heard Arthur start whispering in his ear again, he didn’t dare move for fear of breaking the spell.

“I don’t know what the right thing is to say, but if you ever want to talk about it again, I’ll be here to listen.”

And that.  That was the right thing to say.

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Referenced child molestation


End file.
